November. Fog. Perhaps a pipe after lunch. It doesn't get any better. This season, as Lewis spake of its "brown solemnities", leans on me.
Rite
Bold September closes crisp and bright
To usher in a brilliant, woody breath
Which leaves October’s leaves beside themselves
In unction last, in blood red robes, in death.
by Evan Wilson
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2 comments:
Just remember to move your hand or foot once in a while so others don't take you for a pile of burning leaves and try to put you out.
Good to see you a'bloggin'
halfgut
And the phrase "Rest in Peace" is past apt at the first full coverage snow.
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